The Still (51 page)

When I was done, she nibbled at a knuckle, her expression one of deep concentration. Then, “Rodrigo of Caledon, rightful Prince and heir, I swear that I shall, when called upon, vote in Council that you be crowned King, that thereafter I shall send men-at-arms to your standard.”

Rustin put his head in his hands.

“Done.” For lack of a staff, I rapped the table.

She held out her hand; I rose swiftly, gave the formal bow of completion, to avoid a touch of hands. “Good day, my lady Soushire. Be so kind as to send up my manservant Anavar; I have want of him.”

I paced our bedchamber in near delirium. “Three votes! We need but one and I’ll be King!” What if Soushire’s spies heard me? It no longer mattered. “Now, on to the Warthen!” I ran to my bags, unwrapped the dented crown. “Remind me to find a smith to tap out the bumps. At coronation I can’t very well wear—”

“Roddy.” Rustin’s voice was flat “How could you?”

“It’s not how it seems. My vow—” I bit off the rest, conscious of straining ears. Some things, at least, I must keep secret. “Groenfil’s of no account,” I said for benefit of the listeners. I beckoned Rustin close, to whisper.

“Isn’t it?” With each emphasis of his words he thrust me closer to the wall. “I hoped you’d be a noble king, and find instead you’d be King at any cost.” His eyes blazed. “You used Groenfil. As you’d use me, or anyone.”

“Rust, that’s not how—”

“You revealed your true character.” He’d worked himself into a splendid rage. “Thank Lord of Nature I am but the son of a traitor, and not myself renegade to all that is decent!”

“Rustin!”

He took breath, and began an outpouring of my faults and foibles, that, for all its unfairness, left me flushed and discomfited. Never had I been censured so, by one whose opinion I cherished.

I waited him out with as good a grace as I could muster, aware of the one thought he’d overlooked. At last he ran down. “Rust, take a moment, hear what I have to—”

He flung a pillow; it knocked over a candlestand.

“More lies, more evasions? Almost, I thought you were a man!” With that he left, and just in time; I’d snatched up a boot and hurled it at his head. It bounced off the door as it swung shut.

I sat fuming at my mentor’s willful stupidity. Surely Rust must fathom that I wouldn’t betray Groenfil without good reason. Why could he not trust my judgment?

A knock. Was he back to apologize, so soon?

“Pardon, Lord Prince.” Anavar. “You called for me?”

With a howl I sprang from my bed, hurled myself at the startled boy, pitched him against the wall. “How dare you go from here without my leave!” My voice rose to a shriek. “Are you my bondsman, or no?” My fists beat a tattoo against his shoulders, his chest. “Think you I’ll tolerate such insolence?”

“Stop!” The boy cowered against the wall.

“Good-for-naught! Lazebones! Ill-bred young jackanapes!” A blow, harder than the others, spun him about. He caught at the wall with one hand; reflexively, the other shoved me aside.

At that, I caught his jerkin, reared back with closed fist, caught him full on the jaw. Anavar dropped like a stone, but I wasn’t done. “Lay hand on your master?” I pounded his ribs while he lay dazed. In fury I flipped him onto his back, took seat on his stomach. “Insolent! Peasant! Brat!” Each word was punctuated by a blow to the face.
“Vile ... scum ... of Eiber!”
His head rocked slack.

The door burst open. Hands seized me from behind, dragged me kicking and screaming off the senseless boy.

“Fostrow! Come! Be quick!” Rustin.

“Let go!” I struggled to break free. “I’ll teach this lout—” I jabbed at Rustin’s ribs.

The soldier rushed in. “What is—Oh, Lord.”

“Carry the boy outside! Hurry, he has the strength of madness and I can’t hold him long.”

I screamed, “Take your hands off me!”

“Aye.” Fostrow scooped up Anavar in his burly arms, heaved him over his shoulder, disappeared out the door.

“Are you satisfied? I’m not done—”

“Oh, yes, you are.” Rust let go his bear hug. I launched myself at him, fists flailing.

He sidestepped, punched me hard in the stomach. I turned green, fell to my knees. “Oh, no.” I gagged, tried not to vomit. Lord of Nature, it hurt.

With no show of sympathy, Rust dragged over a chair, sat. He gripped me firmly and painfully by the nape of the neck and held me in a kneeling position.

I could do little to resist. Arms folded across my belly, I gasped and moaned until the ache faded. I fumbled at his fingers on my neck. “Let go.” No response. “Please.” Despite myself, my voice was a whimper.

“You’re to lie on the bed.”

“I don’t—”

He squeezed harder.

“All right!”

“Until I give you leave.” His fingers dug like claws into my nape.

Weakly, I nodded.

He released me, hauled me to my feet, thrust me to the bed. When I was full on it, he stalked to the door, shut it firmly behind him as he left.

It was a full hour by the candle before he returned, and I’d time to work myself into high indignation. “What does Anavar matter? He’s a mere—”

“Shut thy mouth.” His tone was one I’d never heard.

My words died in my throat.

“He’s not dead. Were he so, I’d be riding to Stryx, done with you forever.”

There was a finality about his last word that chilled me. Silent, I waited.

His voice dripped scorn. “You were too cowardly to vent your rage on me?”

“No, I—”

“Yes.” His eyes bored into mine, until I had to look away. “Roddy, I spoke harsh words to you, and came to regret them. Little did I know how soft they were compared to your conduct.”

“That’s not fair. A noble has every right to chastise a serv—”

“You call it that?” He stood. “Come.”

“Where?”

For answer, he took my wrist, dragged me to the door and beyond to the servants’ room. Within the dark and dingy chamber, Genard crouched by a bed, a wet and bloody cloth in his hand. When he glanced up, his eyes were full of reproach.

I leaned over for a look, and sucked in my breath.

Anavar lay on his back, his face swollen. Blood trickled from cut lips and from his nose. One eye was puffed. He was senseless.

My voice was small. “I didn’t realize—”

“Contemptible.” Rust snapped out the word, and I jerked like a goaded horse.

“Will he heal?”

“Out.” He steered me from the room.

In my own chamber again, I sank to the bed. “I was beside myself ...” I looked up. “Rustin, I’m truly sorry.”

His mouth was tight. “Sorry isn’t enough.”

My stomach churned. “What, then?”

His eyes darted about the room, fell on the drapery. He lifted the hangings from the window, slipped free the supple rod that held them.

“What would you do?” My tone was wary.

“As my father did, when I merited it.”

“But after, you couldn’t sit for days!”

He said nothing.

I tried to keep the horror from my voice. “Rust, I can’t. I’m to be King!”

Again, nothing.

“Even Chamberlain Willem never took wood to me! You haven’t the right!”

“Innately, no. Only through your consent, by your oath to put yourself in my charge.”

Had I really been so stupid as to make such a vow? My mind whirled to that day in the clearing, when first I’d caught up to Hester’s cart.

Yes, I’d sworn. Now the True depended on it. Heart plummeting, I said, “Please, Rust. Don’t hurt me.”

“Kneel at the side of the bed, and lie across it.”

My limbs trembled. Wildly, I thought to cast away all, even the True of Caledon, for my fear, but my mind fastened on another vow I’d carelessly made: that I might feel the coward but would not act it.

That vow, somehow, it was vital that I keep.

Forcing my courage, I steeled myself to do as I was told.

Rust took my hands, placed them on the bed above my head.

“No decent lord batters his servants. No decent man knocks a helpless boy unconscious. The next time you inflict pain, Roddy, recall the feel of it.” To my consternation, he slipped loose the rope belt that held my breeches.

And then, with vigor, he beat me.

For two days there was no thought of our leaving Soushire; I passed most of them facedown on my bed, laden with misery.

I had been whipped like a cur, and, through a foolish promise, had been forced to permit it.

It went without saying that my friendship with Rustin was shattered. His indifference to my wails of anguish and the degradation he visited on me was ample cause. Yet, he seemed not to realize our association was ruined. When I healed, I would make my intentions clear. Until then, I needed his help, Garst’s—anyone present—for the simplest tasks.

I had much time to think.

To myself I swore an oath that no matter how much he might beg, never would I reveal to Rust the plan I’d conceived, by which I’d made my promise to Soushire. Let him wait until its fruition, as would the rest of Caledon. On each visit I waited with spiteful glee for him to inquire, but always his mind was elsewhere.

Garst was angry with me, and his effort to conceal it failed.

Well, he had a right to his wrath; Anavar was his countryman, and I’d abused him. Despite my fury at Rust, I knew I’d erred. In Caledon, Anavar was my bondsman, but in his own land he had great rank, and I ought not to have treated him so meanly.

Anxious to clear my conscience, I asked Elryc to summon the Eiberian for me, but he said, “Don’t be absurd,” and changed the subject. When he’d gone, I struggled into my robe, walked with painful care down the long hall to the servants’ quarters.

It was Chela who opened, and I saw she was much recovered from her injuries; she made an elaborate and derisive curtsy, which I ignored.

They were all inside: Genard, Garst, and the convalescent Anavar, who lay on the bed they shared. His face was bruised and puffy. Shame washed over me. I wouldn’t allow Ebon to be treated as I’d done him.

For a moment I wished I hadn’t come, then faced my task.

I faced Garst first. “For what I’ve done to your compatriot, I’m sorry.” I studied his reaction, saw none. “I was wrong, and admit it.” A generous concession, but he didn’t seem impressed. I snapped. “That’s all. Leave us.” My true business was with Anavar.

When we were alone, I sat—knelt, rather—at the bedside. The boy’s look was wary. I said, “I don’t know whence came the rage that overtook me. I—well, I do, it was over Rustin, and politics, and had nothing to do with you. I apologize.”

“Thank you, great Lord.” His words came swift. His wary eyes watched mine.

“Don’t be afraid,” I said. “I won’t hurt you again.” My knees ached, and I shifted position. He said nothing. In the hot room my hair dampened and fell over my eye, and I raised my hand to brush it away.

Anavar flinched.

Could he not understand plain speech? “I told you to have no fear!”

“Aye, my lord!” His hand tightened on the bedcloth.

I ought to strike him for his obstinacy. It would serve him right, teach him—

Lord of Nature, what comes over me?

I hoisted myself to my feet, walked to the tiny window that was the room’s only light. “I have a horrid temper,” I said. “Rustin knows, and has tried to teach me better. Sometimes I forget. Sometimes I’m ...” My voice dropped.

“Yes, my lord?”

I made myself finish. “Too witless to see what I’m doing.” I swung to face him. “I don’t intend to be evil, Anavar.” My face was crimson. “Sometimes I can’t help myself.”

His voice was tentative. “I wasn’t hurt so badly.” He shifted. “I was dazed, and fell.”

Lord of Nature; he thought to reassure me. Was it from fear or compassion? No matter; either was unbearable. “I’m very sorry.” I hurried to the door, opened it to make my escape.

“—he’ll give him a silver pence to make it all well, until the next time.” Chela, her tone full of contempt. “Think you he’ll change his ways? Sooner a cow lay eggs than—” Someone nudged her. Seeing me, she fell silent.

Scarlet, I retreated to the servants’ room, slammed shut the door. Did all share such opinions of me? Was it for my bullying, or because I fled such moments as these? It must not remain so. I took a deep breath, faced Anavar once more.

He watched curiously, and I had nothing to say. Desperate to fill the silence, I blurted, “Have you ever been beaten?”

His swollen face showed surprise. “Of course, my lord. Who has not?”

I crossed again to the window. “I, until yesterday.”

“Really?” He seemed astounded. “Had you no father?”

“I was nine when he died.”

Anavar’s brow wrinkled. “They say Margenthar of Stryx is your regent, and he is not among us. Who could beat you now?”

I hadn’t foreseen such questions, but I’d opened the door to them. “My frie—Rustin. He acts as my guardian.”

“You have a regent
and
a guardian? Who appointed Rustin to watch over you, sire?”

“I did.”

The boy’s bewilderment was almost laughable. “You set someone to chastise you? I’ve never heard such a thing.”

Nor had I, until I’d done it, and look at the result. I bore welts that wouldn’t fade for a week. I muttered, “It hurts.”

“I can imagine, if he used leather. A switch is nothing to speak of, but leather, or worse, a rod ...” His grin was shy. “What was your offense, sir?”

I started. “You don’t know? My abusing you. He called it unforgivable.”

“In your land I’m but a servant”

“But you were noble, in your House.”

“That shouldn’t matter.” He spoke without thinking, then cringed in dismay. “I’m sorry, my lord! I mean no disrespect!”

“Go easy, Anavar. I won’t hurt you.” I walked with care to the bed, my rump smarting. “Why shouldn’t your nobility matter?”

He studied me before risking my wrath. “In our land, sire, a noble must earn respect as any man. His station entitles him to land and wealth, but not to mishandle his servants.”

I snorted. “I admit I acted wrongly with you, but not as a general principle. Your commoners don’t fear your nobility, and as a result even the army you send must be hired, rather than drawn from loyalty and obedience.”

“What nonsense!” His voice was hot. “Of course we pay our pikemen and archers; how else to keep poor folk in arms, when they could be home working their crops? But all the officers—oh!” His hand flew to his mouth. When he spoke again his voice was small. “Forgive my impertinence, sire.”